Rêves à partir de son lit de mort

By Oscar O’Neill-Pugh

Turn off the machine, despite my fragility.

Turn me off and allow me, grant me my sleep.

I ask of you, why put off the inevitable?

Let me write, despite my hand being illegible.

Why let an old man disturb the universe?

Allow me freedom, let my soul disperse

from my body, weak and frail, a curse.

I near my destination, so let me traverse.


Allow me to become one with the ebb and flow,

Upon the sea which mortal men come and go.

I do not have much time, for my boat is leaving.

My breathing slowing, eyes shutting, heartbeat receding.


Bring me back to that beautiful meadow,

For these flowers have long been wilted.

Bring me back, let me linger on in that bed,

Where not even Sandman could have slept.

Could you retrieve for me, that vial of memories

that I had to seal, alas, for not to have wept.


Could you give me a gentle hand?

Better yet, could you give me hers?

For I have not found it in years.

This must be the end. I think, no,

Rather I have decided that its time.

I’m on my way to find her.


Image by Igor Goryachev.